


Continuity

by meowstelle



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowstelle/pseuds/meowstelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikoto was his. She was destined to be is as decreed by the Uchiha family. She submitted to it when they were married, and it culminated in the birth of their two sons. She was his, and for heaven's sake, he was going to make it known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Continuity

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to anyone reading this, because you either stumbled upon this or you’re still reading my Naruto fanfiction. This is my first fic since…since three years ago, goodness. I hope I’ve improved. Enjoy this FugaMiko fic dedicated to uchiha-mikoto, my 50th follower on my tumblog, itaching! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto, but I do own this silly headcanon.

Continuity

Mikoto recently turned sixteen when their betrothal was announced. On that day, the Uchiha gathered at the main family’s house, dressed meticulously in authentic kimono, and careful with each other, as always. The humid atmosphere and the forbidding grey clouds hinted at a dreadful rainy season, and many a fashionable umbrella was propped up on shoulders to gallantly protect the ladies from stray raindrops. Mikoto, just hearing the news from her parents, traded socializing for a stone bench underneath what must have been a blossoming cherry tree a few months ago. 

The engagement itself did not shock her. She was closest to Fugaku in age, not too distant and not too closely related. Her flawless reputation and geisha-like beauty was lauded by many, both Uchiha and not. “You would make a good wife,” both fathers had said approvingly. Part of her considered that an offense. After becoming best friends with Uzumaki Kushina, she’d thought the last future she wanted was one of a customary, close-lipped, dish-washing, family-oriented woman. She envied her literally hot-headed friend, her careless freedom and wild rampages. But Mikoto was a woman of the Uchiha, a clan which valued conservative and patriarchal tradition. If she were to become anyone’s wife, she might as well have been thrilled to be promised to the future head.

But she wasn’t thrilled. In passing and in the few classes they shared together at school, she’d observed that Fugaku was astute, standoffish, haughty, and far too severe. Despite growing up with the knowledge that she’d be married to a man of her father’s choosing, she was totally unprepared for it. Mikoto saw her prospects, once a path of many branches that traced the horizon, merge, begin and end with Uchiha Fugaku.

Uchiha Fugaku.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

Uchiha Fugaku? 

Mikoto nearly spluttered in surprise, but controlled herself enough to keep her mouth politely shut. Nodding, she scooted over to accommodate him on the cherry blossom viewing bench. They sat in absolute silence, save the rustle of the leaves and the stray guffawing of a half-drunken relative seeping through the thin house walls. The sky darkened. Rain, perhaps? Or maybe the sun was hiding in the tree’s thicker parts? Clouds rumbled together, rolling across any unoccupied space like children scrambling before each other, queued up for lunch. The first drop tumbled on Mikoto’s toe, like ice cold fingers pinching her, demanding her awakening from a dream.

The drops fell in earnest a mere two seconds after that, while the tree did very little to shield them. Mikoto sighed in defeat, not wanting to return to the party. “Let’s go back to the house, Fugaku-sama,” she suggested, courteous enough to not abruptly up and ditch him.

“No. Let’s stay.” Fugaku looked up at her between his wet bangs, which already began sticking to his forehead.

“We’ll get soaked. And Fugaku-sama will get sick.” 

“I’m already soaked and I’m already sick. Sit down.”

She complied, too startled by his instinctive bossiness to dispute his decision. She will be taking orders from him for the rest of her life – what’s for dinner, what she’ll purchase for interior decorating, what room she’ll be forbidden to clean, what questions she’ll must never ask. Water slid down her cheeks, down her neck, creeping along her back. Mother Nature was being uncharacteristically sympathetic; she disguised Mikoto’s tears.

A warmth grasped her hand, just how clouds sweep across hillsides. Four fingers prodded their way between hers, and thumb followed the tiny blue veins showing like rivers and tributaries that connect to no end. Fugaku’s skin, slick with rain, was much larger and darker in comparison to hers. Beside him, she felt so small.

“Fugaku-sama! Mikoto-san! Get inside; it will start thundering soon!” 

Mikoto waited for Fugaku to respond first. When he didn’t, she attempted vainly to escape his grip, apologize, and rejoin the indoor festivities. “Fugaku-sama, we must return.”

She never noticed how narrow his eyes were, how it gave him an eternally intense expression. Years alter she’d learn that, when he does offer a genuine smile – which is and was seldom – he closes his eyes as though he’d sheathed two daggers. Fugaku did smile that afternoon on the rainy season’s first rain underneath the cherry blossom tree that finished blossoming. It was a satisfied grin, directed inwardly at a joke he probably remembered from this or that other day. 

“As you say, my queen.” 

Fugaku lifted Mikoto’s hand and kissed her palm, breathed in, then released her.

They returned to the gathering wordlessly, endured their scolding wordlessly, and consented their hearts to each other in that very same fashion.

~

When she requested she rendezvous with her elder son in a place where Fugaku would never stumble upon them, she didn’t expect a downtown wooden bar that looked as if it were designed to pleasure docked pirates. The only item that looked remotely encouraging was the cobwebbed jukebox crooning what sounded like upbeat Satanic chants. Mikoto definitely needed to get out of the house more – or Itachi needed better taste. She nigh berated herself for the chain reaction that possibly climaxed in his discovering this sleazy pub. Itachi squeezed her arm reassuringly (when did his hands get so big?) and steered her to a very wooden table equipped with equally wooden stools.

A blue-haired waitress with a lip piercing and a bubble-gum scowl asked for their orders. After Mikoto awkwardly ordered “water” and her son, scotch, she simply nodded and clicked away on her heels, with a sweeping backwards glance at Itachi. As his mother, Mikoto couldn’t help but notice. If Itachi did, he ignored it as one would ignore a white crayon.

“So tell me why I had to take you to the most forlorn bar in the city?” Itachi didn’t beat around the bush when it concerned family. 

Mikoto stared guiltily at her lap, a habit she’d entertained after years of kneeling mutely on tatami mats. “Your father and I are…in a separation. At the rate it’s heading, we will probably be divorced by the end of this year.”

Even though Itachi didn’t reside at the main Uchiha house any longer – instead he boarded with Shisui for college in a small, tranquil town – he didn’t look particularly shaken at the news. Save the fact that Fugaku fathered two resilient boys, he could have been mistaken for being totally asexual and disconcerted with the world in general. He took no enjoyment or interest in anything that wasn’t business-related, much less in his own wife. 

Itachi’s lips thinned into a concerned line. He seemed grateful for the waitress’ arrival with their drinks. “Why are you telling me this now, mother?” Mikoto knew that low tone well, and recognized Itachi’s careful selection of words. That lasting, accusatory ‘mother’ rattled her. She acknowledged her mistake, withholding sensitive information like that from Itachi was unwise, and, well –

She bit her thoughts short. “I was going to tell you earlier-”

“Sasuke didn’t even tell me anything.” If anything truly hurt Itachi, it was anything or everything that involved his little brother. Everyone in the Uchiha family loved him as the youngest, but Itachi adored, and quite possibly worshipped, every spike of rebellious hair on his head. It was an incomprehensible affection bred since the younger’s birth, and puzzled anyone who glimpsed the visible change in Itachi’s attitude when the subject of Sasuke happened to crop up. “Did you two agree to keep tight-lipped about it?”

Tacitly, she admitted. “We didn’t know how to tell you. It was so sudden.”

Itachi softened marginally at the melancholy glaze over his mother’s eyes. “It was going to happen. I’m sorry.” He paused, held his breath, brow knitted and focused deeply on Mikoto’s untouched glass of water. Gesturing at it, he commented speculatively, “You obviously didn’t invite me out to have a mother-son drinking game of ‘let’s forget about the bastard.’” Mikoto surrendered only a weak chuckle in reply. “Are you going to keep me guessing? You’ve got a plan. Lady Uchiha, indeed.”

Uchiha are manipulative by nature, you see.

Hesitant and even embarrassed, she nodded. “I know this might seem odd to you, but...I love your father. I love your father very much.”

“Say that again,” Itachi urged. 

She couldn’t be certain whether he was cross or in shock. She repeated with the wobbly confidence she had in every Fugaku-related matter, “I love Fugaku. He’s a fool, but I love him.”

With a chuckle, a swallow of half his drink, and a premature order of a refill, he began furiously texting away on that Blackberry of his. Mikoto, unsure of how to react, sipped at her water at regular intervals to pass the time. When he was young, she remembered, it was always best for him to do his homework in utter silence. By the time he shut off the eternally vibrating contraption and pocketed it, her glass was empty save a film of thin water glinting in the bar’s yellowish light. 

“Sorry, I didn’t expect those I contacted to respond so enthusiastically.”

“Contacted? I don’t-”

Itachi interrupted her again. He was quite out of character today - perhaps college (and Shisui’s devil-may-care character) changed him? “We’re going to win him back, of course,” he said as surely as he could recite his times tables.

“Excuse me?” Mikoto had expected as much, yet part of her wished Itachi would insist on her giving up and dumping him. She was forty-two, for heaven’s sake; she had no time for love games. She’d married a man, raised two wonderful sons who compensated for the lack of husband, and lived quite securely in the Uchiha house. Maybe some circumstances of life would wrench a portion of that away, but it was too late and too tiring to challenge fate.

“Father’s experiencing a mid-life crisis right now. Sasuke told me the other day he was staring at the white hairs he’s grown, utterly perplexed. I don’t blame him. One of his sons is in college, and the other one is, well, Sasuke.” 

Mikoto watched her son suspiciously. “Where are you going with this?”

“I’m getting there. He’s never been a particularly loving man, but I’m sure you of all people remember the days when he was. Stress, work, and even his distant fatherhood have worn him out like it has you. And, like you’re thinking now, he believes it’s too late to fight for you. He hasn’t fully recognized his errors, and even if he does, he’s far too proud to admit to them and ask penance. He’s simply assumed that you’re indifferent. Your decided silence certainly is not helping your case.”

“The Uchiha prodigy, indeed,” Mikoto countered. “You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?” 

Almost offended, Itachi frowned briefly, and then waved it off. “Yes, I have. Sasuke asked this of me, actually. He doesn’t want the separation to continue, much less a divorce. And I agree with him.”

He had lied back there, she thought, half charmed and half bewildered by her own son’s smooth duplicity. Yes, it was generally harmless, but should it ever be harmful…

“Listen, mother,” he said sternly. 

“I’m forty-two years old,” she maintained. “Four long decades, two of which I spent with Fugaku. I should be grateful I shared any time with him at all. I’m getting old, Itachi. I feel so old.”

He scowled again, and she decided in that instant that she liked him immensely better when smiling. “You don’t look it. Forty is the new twenty.”

Suddenly self-conscious, she ran a hand through her hair and across her cheek, feeling for sagging skin and thinning fiber. “That may be true, but I feel much, much older. You’re still at your prime; you’ll understand someday.”

Itachi laughed bitterly. “I feel as though I’ve lived a thousand years.”

“When you’re my age, four thousand.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Touché. But enough about me. We’re here to talk about you and Father, a romantic date or two, as Gai-san might say, youth.” He smirked at his own allusion while simultaneously swallowing his fifth shot. “Forty years is the same as twenty, except you’ve got more silver than green. If you do this and it fails, then fine, I will take responsibility. I’ll personally see to it that Father doesn’t misconstrue our intentions. If you don’t, then you alone will have to deal with a brooding Sasuke until he leaves for college. And you know he’s an expert brooder.” 

Itachi paused and looked at his mother expectantly. Stifling a laugh behind her hand, she blinked back a searing tear, shook her head, smiled and smiled hard. “You were born to become the new head of the family,” Mikoto remarked. “You’ve just made me an offer I can’t refuse.”

“You flatter me. I was under the impression that you had no intention of refusing in the first place.”

A tad teary-eyed, Mikoto simply replied, “How I’ve missed you, Itachi.”

~

“Any man who considers leaving you doesn’t deserve you, you know.” Kushina, ever the wise one, guided her through the crowded mall by elbowing her way through every stationary clique of teenagers-without-a-destination. Among the contacts Itachi furiously texted two nights ago, she gladly accepted the duty of gussying up her childhood friend into something Fugaku couldn’t resist. Mikoto had to wonder which son planned particular detail of the strategy; a highly baffled part of her knew it was the conniving elder.

“I know, I know, I’ve heard that one before,” Mikoto responded, disenchanted. Any discouraging quip dampened her resolve, and regarding Fugaku, Kushina was full of them. When she was first betrothed to be married to him, Kushina nearly on her mouthful of objections, and even more so when Mikoto attempted to convince her that she’d liked Fugaku anyway. When their sons were born, she’d disapproved of Fugaku’s detached yet pressuring parental tactics and grew increasingly vocal. Luckily, her husband, Minato, buffered her acidic accusations with friendship and political connections. He was, technically, Fugaku’s superior. 

“Where are we going?”

“First, make up. Then, clothes. Then, hair. We’ll have a day at the spa together tomorrow. Did I ever mention how fabulous your sons are?”

“Don’t tell me they’re paying for all of this.” Perhaps she wasn’t wrong to question Itachi’s sanity when he’d derived the quadratic equation at kindergarten while the other children struggled to color within the lines. 

Kushina made an ungraceful pfft! sound that implied she wouldn’t pay jack shit to win Fugaku’s affections. At least she managed to graciously refrain.

“I feel like a teenage girl again.” Giggling, Kushina gently applied a base powder to Mikoto’s neck, shook her head, and sampled a paler color. “Do you ever go outside, Miko-chan?” 

Mikoto smiled sheepishly as another shade – paler – was smudged against her jaw. “I was always this pale. You used to be, too. Remember?” In high school, they’d sunbathe on rooftops in a fruitless attempted to bronze their skin. After consistently emerging with sweltering red burns, they’d settled on crushing on guys with darker tones, so as to save their offspring from the curse of easy sun burning. Minato tanned as naturally as a beach boy, and Fugaku, like Itachi (who was consequently saved from burning) boasted an exotic, ‘main Uchiha branch’ tan. Sasuke, however, nearly always returned from the beach with one or two body parts as red as tomatoes.

“Fugaku liked you pale,” Kushina said cheerfully. “I remember how you blushed got after hearing him say that. I still hate the guy, but…”

“But what?”

“He made you real happy, you know.”

“I do know, silly.”

“And then he turned you into a soft-voiced housewife! How backhanded is that, you know!?” 

Mikoto nodded, satisfied with the base color, but dissatisfied with her friend’s tactlessness. “I wanted to be there for Itachi and Sasuke. I don’t regret the decision at all.” Without looking at her, she continued on to the endless tables of eyeliner. Kushina followed her, eerily quiet after her unintended, brash insult, and watched her haphazardly pluck handfuls of eyeliner pens. Mikoto scarcely depended on makeup, wore it sparingly even in her youth, and thus didn’t know much about highlighting her facial assets – whatever those were.

“Oh, stop that,” Kushina interjected, finally fed up with observing her cosmetic faux pas. “Put that gaudy red away and try this blue. It’ll draw out the blue tint in your hair. You were always more like water than fire, anyway, Miko-chan. Sometimes I wonder why you’re in the Uchiha clan.” Mikoto remained silent, and allowed her to pick and choose what hues would best suit her. “Fugaku’s pretty fiery, and you’re full of water. No wonder both your boys have grown to be such fine young men.”

She understood her apology, accepted it with a knowing smile, and hugged her tightly before moving on, as cosmetically confused as ever, to lipstick.

~

In the four years of their betrothal, the rainy incident was never repeated. Mikoto and Fugaku were often paired together during family gatherings and sporadically hung out at school with Kushina and Minato, but never alone. The little intimacy they shared contained itself in extreme politeness, Fugaku’s inability to look at anything but her, and Mikoto’s inability to look at him without flushing bright red and turning away. If they sat beside each other during dinner, his hand would sidle its way over hers. Sometimes dinner conversation lasted long enough for the clamminess to stick their hands together, but he never let go and she never turned him down. 

The night of their marriage was the second time they were truly alone. Mikoto stepped inside their new room, dressed from an elaborate white kimono to a simple grey yukata. Fugaku watched her intensely, like always, and only looked away to lie down on their futon. Tensely holding the knot holding her yukata closed, Mikoto positioned herself beside him, awkward. 

The sheets rustled. Fugaku’s hand tilted her chin, linking their eyes, and eventually linking their lips. After a few seconds, he broke away from the kiss, and bid her good night.

“You’re not going to…?” Mikoto wasn’t certain whether to feel relieved or affronted.

He closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t do that to a woman I don’t love.”

Legs trembling from the sheer weight of her marriage’s circumstances, she whispered, “You don’t love me.”

“Do you?” 

Their conversation continued no further, and neither enjoyed a restful sleep. 

Their early years of marriage was resembled a courting, during which Fugaku absorbed himself in her, began to love the natural scent of her thick hair, and could deduct by one sweeping look that she was on her period. A special effort was made to arrive home early, change quickly into jeans and a shirt, and plan their evening at stop lights. To any work or Uchiha-related socials, he proudly entered with Mikoto on his arm, and felt a surge of pride whenever her beauty was complimented. His appreciativeness of women in general grew, as month after month she’d curl in bed pressing a warm pad on her lower stomach, brushed her long hair every evening like a child would a delicate doll’s, and saw colors with more vividness than he could ever imagine. He already thought her stunning, but every night he slept with her hair tickling his chin, he thanked whatever red string that happened to knot them together.

In turn, Mikoto learned to appreciate his nuances, foibles, and strengths, like his interrogative eyes, his unwavering dedication to anything he was committed to, and the way his fists rhythmically clenched like a beating heart when he was angry. She’d thoroughly enjoyed thumbing through cook books to test her husband’s taste buds, but occasionally they’d circle grocery stores for hours, caught in a debate between frozen pizza or Lunchables. She’d introduced him to hobbies that Fugaku would never look twice at: ballroom dancing, art, craft fairs. Of course, he grumbled, protested, brooded and was far too serious for his own good. Underneath his pretenses, Mikoto distinguished a man under pressure, the knots in his muscles, the natural clench of his strong jaw, and the goodwill in his intentions. She knew she loved him when she realized that doing his laundry wasn’t so demeaning, simply because it was his.

Two years later, the first time they made love, Mikoto became pregnant with her first son.

~

 

Fugaku was never a man of many words, enjoyed threatening with his eyes, exercised complete control and held his chin parallel to the ground at all times. Discipline and order, power and justice. He’d grown up believing such concepts, and raised his ill-receptive sons to follow those ideals as well. Itachi absorbed what he liked and discarded the rest; Sasuke, no matter how eager he was to please, only acted the part. No matter – they were exceedingly successful, and what they failed to do separately they could easily accomplish together. The Uchiha family and its corporation were in good hands. 

At this age, he’d wanted to reminisce and envision a conquered path of prosperity for the Uchiha, made possible by his leadership. There was no doubting the truth in that now. They had their respective bumps and troubles, but both sons were maturing into especially fine men. Once Itachi completed his education, he’d marry his currently undecided betrothed. The 21st century being what it is, Itachi probably prepared a catalogue of reasons to not marry his chosen girl. No matter: the old principle of preserving the main branch’s purity was beginning to die out, and Itachi’s persuasiveness could ultimately override any clan decision. The Uchiha family was in good hands.

After three decades, Mikoto had been a very faithful wife, excellent support, and omnipresent in the household. She was obedient, and didn’t mind his working late night after consecutive night. Their prime disagreements concerned the raising of their children – clearly, she was ignorant to what Fugaku had endured in preparation for his future as head of the Uchiha. If his sons couldn’t handle such pressure, they were useless. Mikoto had them going soft, with the consequence of Fugaku’s being constantly irritable, aggravated, or otherwise nonexistent. He’d wanted to prove a point, but, as proud as he was, that point extended to a period. Thus, this separation. Both his sons were grown, and they didn’t particularly need a mother to baby them any longer. Fugaku was okay with that. The Uchiha family was still in good hands. 

Then what in heaven’s name bothered him so much?

“You look like you need an intervention, my friend.” Minato scraped up a chair beside him, joining him at his desk. “Are you especially busy at the moment?”

Fugaku contemplated the stack of papers awaiting his review and signature. “Yes,” he said diligently.

“Paperwork can wait, not people,” Minato waved it off in response, flashing his famous toothy grin. “You’ve been really strung up lately, so I’m taking advantage of your phone not ringing off the hook.” He flipped his chair around and sat backwards, with his chin nestled casually in his arms. “I was hoping you could hear me out.”

Just outside the office, Naruto located and pulled Fugaku’s telephone wire. After seeing his father change his seating position, he scurried out of the building, head low and inelegantly balancing on the balls of his feet while Sasuke screamed whispers for him to get-the-fuck-out-now. 

“What is it you need?”

“Some time to relax. I’ve been so swamped lately.” Minato, rubbed his temple, and then yawned to emphasize his point.

At this, Fugaku raised an eyebrow. “Do you need me to do a job of yours?”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you. I’ve tried to plan a night out with Kakashi, but the guy says he’s busy. It wouldn’t hurt to go to out, like the good old days, a non-business dinner, would it? God, that sounds great right about now…”

“I don’t have the time. I’m sorry.”

Minato amended his statement, rapidly, “I didn’t mean to say you were a second choice from Kakashi – he’s just a teensy more available, so I supposed – but I should have asked you first, I’m sorry.”

At this, Fugaku raised both eyebrows. “I still don’t have the time. Sorry, Namikaze.”

“It’s Minato, Uchiha,” he responded, grimacing. “Sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Time I could have spent doing paperwork,” Fugaku maintained, because he liked having the final word. 

“Yes, yes, I know. You’ll be doing paperwork.” 

A few hours later, Fugaku called him, asking when he should schedule their conference dinner. 

Good enough, Minato thought triumphantly. 

~

As Fugaku changed for his meeting with Minato, he heard heels clicking in the other room. For the briefest moment, he was transported to an era of nightly outings doing nothing but whatever he liked. The thump of the door brought him back to the reality of the buttons on his burgundy shirt and what he pessimistically considered the antithesis of a relaxing dinner. He hadn’t had a proper ‘night out’ in years. Minato must have had an ulterior motive.

Only when he saw the half vacant garage did he realize that a heel-clad Mikoto left the house, unannounced. A pang of curiosity (curious jealousy?) knocked at his chest and was promptly ignored, overshadowed my Fugaku’s learned coolness. She didn’t need his permission to go out. They were separated, for godssake. 

Fugaku rendezvoused with Minato at the entrance of a dimly lighted new restaurant, with well-dressed persons filtering in and out in dues or quartets. “Did you want to speak to me about something?” he inquired immediately, before even entering.

He shook his head, and almost seemed annoyed. “Loosen up, Fugaku. Not everyone needs a work-related reason to go out with a friend, right?” 

Fugaku scowled, unconvinced. Without responding, he opened the door for Minato and followed behind him, suddenly wary of the hushed chattiness of the patrons dining around him. Stiletto heels, little black dresses, smoldering smoky eyes, sleeves rolled up, hair gelled back, ties and the occasional bow tie. Clearly, this was a hotspot for a formal date. Fugaku felt sorely and unnervingly out-of-domain.

“Reservation for Namikaze, please.” 

A blue-haired, pierced waitress – funny that she’d be hired here with that hair color – nodded and guided them through the large expanse dotted with tables and bordered with booths to a more secluded corner of the restaurant where only one other couple sat, inspecting their menus. Minato strode broadly and quickly to the chair facing the wall. Fugaku, with a bemused raise of his eyebrows, sat opposite him, and accepted his menu with a solemn nod.

Then he looked up, past Minato’s shoulder, and saw the most stunning woman that has ever dared breach the boundaries of his life. Her skin looked the color of a creamy sheet of cotton, and her lips were a mature rose. Her hair and eyes gleamed a dark-blue even in the golden low light of the room. Her neck arched like a proud swan, her collarbones peeked out from underneath her skin, and her slender body was draped by a one-shouldered black dress, clinging to her body in all the right places.

Mikoto, Fugaku realized, was beautiful.

“What’s wrong? What are you looking at?” Minato interrupted his revelation with a confused look, and began twisting around to glimpse at what paled his partner so.

“Don’t look,” Fugaku hissed, reaching out to keep Minato’s shoulders perfectly square. His wife hadn’t detected him yet, and he intended on remaining discreet until she departed. The last thing Fugaku wanted was an awkward encounter – in the presence of Minato, no less. He was mortified just imagining it.

But Mikoto had to be here for a reason. That reason, Fugaku dreaded. 

Across the table from his wife sat a silver haired young man with a scar over his left eye and a book on his lap, bookmarked by his finger. Kakashi, Minato’s old protégé, and currently Sasuke’s teacher at school. Kakashi, the man who was supposedly ‘too busy to hang out with Minato’ tonight. Too busy on a date with Fugaku’s wife, of all the women in the city available to him.

Fugaku had to admit, the man had good taste.

The pierced waitress returned, and he hadn’t even opened his menu. “Are you ready to order?” Not wanting to delay his exodus from this terrible predicament, Fugaku hastily ordered an easy-on-the-stomach dish and a simple glass of water, and continued to gawk. Minato talked – about what, he had neither clue nor care – and on occasion he’d contribute a “Hn” and a “I heard about that, too.” When the food arrived, he tried to focus his very being into consumption and not the woman who looked like a woman he once knew who cackled too noisily at comedy movies and kissed with tongue only when she was especially turned on and loved Chinese restaurants with little koi ponds at their entrances and nearly broke Fugaku’s hand when she had given birth to troublesome little Sasuke. 

There she was, after all, with a younger man. Fugaku knew Kakashi to be studious, intelligent, strange, yet humorous and compassionate. Having shared Minato’s ideals, Kakashi would never betray a friend. Although Fugaku could only reasonably consider him a ‘close acquaintance,’ he felt that this date qualified as betrayal.

Betrayal for what? Stealing Mikoto? Making her smile when she hadn’t smiled at him in years? They were separated, for godssake.

God, he was embarrassed. Never in his life had anyone dared to cross him so, and if they did, Fugaku could easily draw a coherent plan of action to exact his revenge and regain the upper hand. Logically thinking, remaining apathetic to the situation would be the ideal, but he couldn’t just pretend his indifference when all the muscles in his body yearned to punch Kakashi in one of his droopy eyes and repossess what he had laid claim to that day underneath the dripping wet cherry blossom that had finished blossoming.

“Fugaku – uh – where are you going?” Slack-jawed, Minato dropped his fork on the ground, gaping at his friend stalking like a predator across the room.

Mikoto was his. She was destined to be his as decreed by the Uchiha family. She submitted to it when they were married, and it culminated in the birth of their two sons. She was his, and for heaven’s sake, he was going to make it known.

“Mikoto.”

When she looked at him, her eyes betrayed fear and confidence all at once. “Fugaku…what are you doing here?”

“We’re going home. Now.” He grasped her protesting arm, thus forcing her out of her chair, and dragged her to the exit without a second look back at Minato or Kakashi, who flashed each other a hearty thumbs-up.

~

Mikoto clambered into the passenger’s seat, a tad disoriented, and her feet tender. Their plan had been executed perfectly so far, but from here on, it was all on her. As it should be. 

Firstly, Fugaku seemed more enraged than hurt – his slamming every door they passed through was proof enough – which obviously meant she was in for a battle. It took all the self-control she had to keep her jaw from jittering in its place. Fugaku had never hit her or the boys, but if he ever looked prepared to do so, now was the time.

Once he closed the door to his car, he commenced his tirade. “What were you thinking, embarrassing me like that? I was at dinner with my superior, with Minato. If he were to see my wife tramping around with a man, what do you think he’d think?”

“Minato knows we are separated,” Mikoto responded, rendered half dumb by her husband’s frantic expression. Fugaku ordinarily kept his cool and released his fury in bursts of menacing glares, formal one-sided talks, and tense, crossed arms. When he did get genuinely mad, he spat fire. 

“Does it matter? Did you think you could get away with making eyes at each other while I was sitting in the same goddamn room?”

Softer still: “I didn’t know you were there. It was a coincidence. Forgive me.”

Fugaku flinched at that. It was true, she hadn’t noticed him for the thirty minutes he sat, transfixed by her. In those thirty minutes, he was utterly nonexistent – dead to her. He couldn’t fathom why it hurt so much, or why he felt already acquainted to this ache. When he next spoke, it was in a low growl. “Was this the first time? Was this the first time you’ve been out with another man?”

“Yes.” Mikoto told the truth.

“Why him? Why now?” Seething, he grasped the steering wheel, clenching and unclenching, and looked at her searchingly with those bottomless, bottomless eyes.

She set her jaw and held the hem of her dress as emotional support. “I could ask you the same question. Why do you care now?”

“You were an embarrassment.” Proud. His nostrils flared.

Mikoto felt her heart melt and spill from her mouth and eyes, like searing lava. “You didn’t give two flying fucks about me for five years. All business, all success. You never slept facing me, Fugaku, and now you’re upset because I’ve hurt your pride?”

“That doesn’t give you the right to start whoring around!” Jumping to conclusions. Veins popped from his fists.

“It was a simple dinner, for godssake! I wouldn’t do that to a man I didn’t love.”

Fugaku’s face twisted from rage to the ambiguous look of a kicked wolf. “I saw the way you looked at him.”

Stubborn tears seeped from her eyes, burning down her cheeks, salted her tongue. She could hardly bear to look at him, this man she once was told to love and did, however ephemerally. “Why do you care how I feel about him? Was it because I actually dressed up for a change? Or because you hate having something taken away from you? Is that it?”

His answer could change everything. Mikoto waited, breathing in small hiccups. 

But his tense brow smoothed, and his eyes lowered and closed, directed inwardly, soft. Maybe broken. “I don’t know,” Fugaku finally muttered. 

He started the car, and started driving, as if to distract himself. His vague answer, for all she knew, would remain vague for the rest of her life. The divorce will probably be finalized in the upcoming weeks. She will fight nail and tooth for custody of Sasuke, whose volatile emotions were already prepared to self-destruct. The pre-existing rift in the relationship between Itachi and Fugaku, caused by years of brotherly protectiveness for Sasuke and parental pressure respectively, would become a valley. Forehead flattened against the window, Mikoto gritted her teeth and wept for the years of forever wasted love. 

They pulled up at the house again, into the garage. Mikoto, too weak to move, figured she’d rather remain in the car and mourn her sons – mourn her loss. Fugaku was the complete opposite, and moved to leave the vehicle as soon as physically possible. Once he left, she took the liberty of crying harder, soaking her face in itself. Her heart was spilling everywhere.

The door she was leaning on opened. Off guard, Mikoto fell sideways. She hadn’t the will to lift her hands to guard her from her fall.

She needn’t anyway. Fugaku caught her, brought her down with him to his knees, shoulders shaking, and his damp face buried in the crook of her neck. His breath tickled her collarbone. 

So close.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

Her initial shock stopped her tears, but the sound of his cracked voice ruined whatever emotional stability she had left. “Five years,” she said. “Five years. You haven’t held me for five years, and now…”

Fugaku lifted his face and kissed her, hands in her long hair, long because he liked it that way, he always has. “You have to believe me,” he murmured, forehead against hers. “I thought you never loved me in the first place.”

“After all these years?” 

“You could hardly bring yourself to look at me. You were frightened of me. It was arranged. No one wants their life mapped out like that. Much less someone like you, Mikoto.” His eyes were watery, desperate. “You bore my children, and then I thought you thought duty done, and…and even if I ignored you, you didn’t care. You never said a word, you never looked at me. Please believe me.”

Her final tears slipped from her eyes. Mikoto laughed, in utter disbelief, stupefied by the Dickensian outcome, how complicated a simple thing seemed, and how maybe, just maybe, resolution was possible, closer by an eyelash’s breadth, even when it was so close in the first place. She wrapped her arms around Fugaku’s neck and offered something she’d hoped he’d believe in. 

Outside, Itachi closed the garage door for them. After all, it was beginning to rain.


End file.
